


The Haunter Hunts Tonight

by Omi_Smith



Series: Pwnyta's Peeps [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: //If dreams and/or life force are considered as part of a person, //NOTE: Not all tags apply to all chapters. The following are chapter specific, AU - Pwnyta, Alternate Universe, Cannibalism, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Character Death In Dream, Claustrophobia, Creeper, Drowning, Food Poisoning, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Nyctophobia, Possessive Behavior, Psychological Torture, Scopophobia, Stalker, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 18:11:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16959006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Smith/pseuds/Omi_Smith
Summary: Artimador is prowling for a midnight snack when his attention and appetite are piqued by a dream.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pwnyta](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Pwnyta).



> Written: August 5, 2016. No beta.
> 
> Based off of the Pokémon gijinka/personifications created by an artist of many names whose tumblr is Pwnyta (http://pwnyta.tumblr.com/) and whose twitter is Tony @BaWCatGod (https://twitter.com/BaWCatGod). As such, this AU is inspired by the Pokémon franchise but does not contain any individual characters from the franchise beyond the concept of the different Pokémon species, with few exceptions.
> 
> I am also uncertain what constitutes as graphic in terms of violence. I am playing it safe, though, so the warning is there. In truth, my writing from this time period is unlikely to be that graphic or realistic.

         Within the midnight shadows he hid, amid the eerie and wry kind, with deeds, not _truly_ heinous but nonetheless, _wayward_ and _foul_ in mind.  For ‘twas upon the nightly breezes, within their flowing tease, that the sweet intoxication of dreams from those at ease had permeated the very stars with temptation's soft _please_.  And _resisting_ that which tempts one with such _unwavering passion_ as the sweet dreams of Pokémon, sleeping in their own fashion, will _never_ be a trait he will be known to act on or ration.

         He spies along the broad river flowing deftly, along whose banks homes sit quietly and simply, some crowded together, some far and more richly.  Lively sparks of flavor dance and waft in auras around bedroom windows, beckoning him in chorus. 

         _Come._

_Taste._

_**Eat**._ 

         As of yet, none have matched his mindset.  _Feeble_.  _Boring_.  _Bland_.  False promises hidden beneath the liveliness, serving only to _worsen_ his _wretched hunger_ as salt worsens thirstiness. 

_But lo and behold!_

         Fluttering like a leaf with the next draft, a flicker of warmth, smoky and homey, tantalizing his senses with cruel insubstantiality.  From his gullet, it uncurled a longing and fond reverie, near forgotten with all his memories. 

_Ah.  Once again you appear, my warm one._  

         The ember of that dream left but faint traces, it seems.  Across his fangs, a smirk pulls tight, as he carefully follows with delight.  _Aye_ , he remembers _this one_ alright; a Charmander he was then, small and bright. 

         Existing is _cold_ and _misled_ , being among the dead who do not remain dead.  All memories fade.  The past obscures.  Despite _others_ , alone.  Meaning behind such concepts as _love_ , as _kindness_ , as _warmth_ , is lost.  Only _lust, greed,_ and _cold_ remains.  The dead are damned by their previous life's vice; forever seeking, no sum will ever suffice.  Forever they wonder after all they have lost.

         As sugar is to ants, so is the _living_ to Ghosts.  And Fire types, like the good Father Flaminio Whicket and this beguiling little Char, they love the most.  _Forever enticing_. 

         The dreams of Father Flaminio he may not eat; the warmth of his _living memories, thoughts,_ and _dreams_ would be a treat, and glorying in the _ecstasy_ it'd briefly bring is a dark, wishful feat.  To _feel_ once again the _filling_ of what once was _void_ , the _warming_ of what once was _cold_ , and the _discovery_ of what once was _lost_.  Before it fades, as all _memories_ possessed by the _dead_ do.  Before the stolen fulfillment _empties, chills,_ and is _lost anew._   _Before the **hunger returns** , viciously overdue_.

         _However . . ._

         It must be noted, and surely this can be quoted: _No one ever forbade him from taking the dreams of **others**.  _

         Wetting his lips, he hovers over his Charmander's abode.  A simple little thing, nothing shabby nor outstanding showed.  But that which lay within was unquestionably _not_ simple.  In fact, he dares declare him the best he'll have tonight and the truest form of _culinary delight._


	2. Kreetan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kreetan falls victim to Artimador.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written: September 17, 2014. No Beta.
> 
> Chapter Specific Tags: Kreetan Stillwaters (Blastoise), Zippo Saraf (Charizard), Drowning, Character Death

           _Creeeeeeak_. The window, long unused, protests against the intruder.  The night’s whisper soft breezes tug his clothes, encouraging him to trespass into the building housing his treat.  Ah. Yes. Much closer now.  The Charmander dreams vividly; his warm, smoky flavor saturates the air.  He inhales, slow and long, drawing the aroma into the depths of his soul.  His mouth waters.  Where, oh where, could that little Char be? He investigates the room.  Within the sheets, tangled and all askew, lay not a Char, as he had hoped, but a Blastoise, mouth agape and drooling into his pillow.  Hm… Like murky water, the Blastoise’s dreams cling in a haze around him, quiet contentment rolling in slow ripples. Well, he could have done worse.  And he never says no to appetizers.  _Dream Eater_.  He doesn’t actually want to kill tonight, but he still drains all the pleasantness from the dream.  And once it is all gone, all that will be left is a nightmare. He grins.

          Kreetan was lounging in the grass, soft as downy.  A golden haze laces everything, from the trees and rocks to the very air and water.  He basks in the sunlight, perfectly content to remain there.  But a chill accompanies the next draft, icy enough to convince Kreetan to wrench his eyes open.  His brows lower into a glower as he sits up. The golden hue that clung everywhere, the mint green of the grass, the ultramarine of the river, all of the color of the meadow has bled away. Desolate, somber shades of gray weighted the very air.  Kreetan finds that he can no longer move. Something is very wrong. Apprehension surfaces. Though he can see the trees sway with the wind, not a sound seems to reach his ears.  Frozen, he stares at the river. 

          Movement at the fringe of his vision catches his attention. He is unable to turn to see what is at the river’s bank.  The apprehension evolves into dread.  “ _Ahh!”_ The scream tore through the silence.  Kreetan abruptly finds he can move. At once, he leaps to his feet and turns just in time to see someone fall into the river with a splash.  He moves to help, but as the person claws his way to the top, he freezes in horror.  Zippo. “ZIPPO!” With a burst of energy, he lunges for the river.  He may as well be moving through molasses.  His every motion was ten-fold less than his normal speed, as if he were weighted down by the earth itself. And he was slowing to a stop. Zippo clawed at the water, his flame scarcely above the water, his wings flapping uselessly against the pitiless liquid. “ _K-kree…tan…_ ” Zippo coughs. No. No no no nonono _nononono._  The Charizard slips underwater once again and surfaces, spluttering pleas.  _“Help! Kreetan, please!”_ But Kreetan could no longer move.  _“ZIPPO!”_  he strains against his unseen bonds, sobbing. Zippo sinks once more. He doesn’t surface.

           ** _“ARGH!!”_** No. no, no, no. Kreetan collapses, howling, choking on his tears, grasping at the grey grass, his very soul shattering.

          “AH!” Kreetan jerks awake, breath hitching, still sobbing. His body quakes with the intensity of the nightmare. He curls into himself. “Just a dream. Just a dream,” the mantra is whisper soft as he calms himself.  He doubts he will sleep again this night.


	3. Zippo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artimador finds Zippo, his favorite victim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written: September 27, 2014. No Beta.
> 
> Chapter Specific Tags: Zippo Saraf (Charizard), Kreetan Stillwaters (Blastoise), Lief Groa (Bulbasaur), Possessive Behavior, Claustrophobia [fear of having no escape and being closed in; confined spaces], Nyctophobia/Achluophobia/Lygophobia/Scotophobia [Fear of the dark]
> 
> Definitions of the phobias found at http://phobialist.com/ and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_phobias

         Drifting from the room, unseen by the distressed turtle, the ghost phases through the wall.  Had he bothered to look, all Kreetan would have seen was the gleaming of a pair of eyes and a wicked grin vanishing from sight.  But he did not, leaving the spirit free to follow the tantalizing aroma of a sleeping Charmander.  The thick, heady fragrance of his dreaming mind permeated the air like smoke.  His mouth waters with every inhale, and he licks his lips in anticipation.  For within the next room, he spies the dancing life flame of his favored victim. 

         _Oh?_

         _His little Charmander is **all grown up** now_, he notes with a frown.  _Oh how swift time is to change those who are not dead.  At least_ , he consoles himself, _his Char is still cute, in a new and older way_.  He approves.  His grin stretches wider as he floats to his next victim, laying blissfully unaware within his little dream.  As if sensing the Ghost's presence, the slumbering Charizard curls a bit tighter under the blanket, tucking his merrily bright flame a hint deeper under his chin and cuddling his tail a smidgen tighter.  A wing drapes along the back of the couch, sure to be aching in the morning.  _Poor little Char_ , the Ghost pouts, reaching out to fold the wing against the Charizard's back.  A frown mars the Charizard's once peaceful visage.  The Ghost's pets his hair, grinning despite the motion's failure to ease the frown.  Reveling and savoring the moment, the Haunter caresses the Charizard's face, fingers departing from the dusky orange hair to trace over dark, lovely, delectable skin.  With a thick swallow, he wets his lips, pausing his caress to press fingertips against the Charizard's temple, eye, and lips.  Dark power encompasses him.

         _Dream Eater._

 

* * *

 

         Zippo jerks around, startled.  He could hear Kreetan and Lief arguing about the TV still, but it was the soft thunk from the kitchen that now held his attention.  He carefully stalks, as a predator to its prey, towards the kitchen door.  His pupils dilate as he opens the door a mere crack.  The room is a black void inside.  His tail twitches as his teeth bare in a grimace.  Perhaps he should tell Kreetan someone is raiding the kitchen and let him deal with it.  He stares for a moment more, trying to discern anything within the dark, but it was futile. 

         Suddenly he realizes the silence and stillness all around him and turns quickly to find his friends.  The living room was empty, the remote abandoned on the floor.  He firmly shuts the kitchen door and searches the room for Lief and Kreetan, hoping that they were perhaps pranking him.  But there is no one else there.  Giving the kitchen another uneasy look, he moves deeper into the house, ears straining against the silence.  He cannot distinguish any fresh scents from all the older traces, so he knows not where they might have gone.  He searches Kreetan’s bedroom.  He searches the guest bedroom that Lief was using.  Both empty.  There aren’t many more rooms.  Two bathrooms and closets.  All empty. 

         The silence and stillness of the house eats at him more severely than the most corrosive acid.  He finds it difficult to breathe.  He knows it’s all in his head.  The rooms aren’t _actually_ getting any smaller.  The air _isn’t_ any heavier.  It is _not_ claustrophobic in Kreetan’s house.  But a quick break outside would be great.  Zippo tries to open the door outside.  The door won’t open.  _Why won’t the door open?_ He tries again.  And again.  _The window_.  It wouldn’t slide open no matter how much force he used.  He eyes the tributary in the living room, with its underwater screen door.  He can swim (sort of), should the need arise, but he can’t dive.  At least, not without harming himself in the process.  The kitchen is still the only room he hadn’t entered.  As he turns to it, bile rises in his throat. 

         _Since when was the door grey and splintering?_   _The wall paint shouldn’t be pealing_.  Shadows leaked from under the door and the edges as if clawing its way free from the kitchen.  Zippo hesitantly walks to it.  He can’t just sit and do nothing.  He needs to get out.  The kitchen has a window.  He’ll go straight for the window.  Dread churns in him as he reaches a trembling hand to the knob.  He doesn’t want to go in.  He _really_ does _not_ want that door to open.  But he wants to _get out_ even more.  He carefully turns the knob.  _Creeeaaak_. . .  His hair stands on end.  The silence quickly reasserts itself.  Zippo stands at the maw, biting his lip, shuddering at the inky black void the gaps before him.  No.  _No_.  He can just wait.  But ‘ere he can close the door and turn away, a sudden shove propels him into the kitchen. 

         The thud of the door shatters the silence once again.  It was still dark in here.  _Why was it dark?!_   His tail flinches when he can’t find his flame.  He can still _feel_ his tail.  _Where is my flame!?_   He can’t see.  Icy fear claws up his throat and sears into his heart.  _Out_.  He fumbles forward, towards where the window should be.  _Nothing_.  Nothing but a wall, slightly slimy under his hands.  A stench not unlike rotting flesh pervades the air, gagging Zippo.  He hastily wipes his hands on his pants, ridding them of the slime, but a film remains no matter how much he rubs.  The floor is sticky as he stumbles through the room.  He can’t find the door again.  The room seems completely empty.  The table is gone.  The fridge.  The stove.  Everything is missing.  He stumbles to his hands and knees.  Whatever is on the floor sticks to his tail, his hands, his pants.  He retches.  The sharp reek combined with the rotting stench forces him to retch again and again until he is only dry-heaving. 

         Shakily, he stands and tries very hard not to consider what might be on him now.  He pants with exhaustion and desperation.  Maybe he can Fly out.  Or Aerial Ace.  Or set everything on fire.  He doesn’t care anymore that this was his friend’s house.  He needs to get out _now_.  Spreading his wings, he quickly rises.  It isn’t long until his wings hit the ceiling.  Something feels as if it detaches itself from the ceiling, sticking to his wing, icy and heavy.  He quickly backs away, and his back hits the wall.  Cold ooze seeps through his shirt and clings to his skin.  The stench is immediately twice as bad as before.  Zippo gags and tries to once more to escape.  His wings tremble too much to support him, the heavy thing forcing him to crash.  He can't lift it.  He shuffles forward, the wing dragging across the floor.  The cold has numbed the wing, but he can still feel it caught in the sticky mess on the ground.  In his struggle to free his wing, he stumbles backwards once more into the oozing walls.  He slides to the ground in a sickening wet plop.  Defeated, he cowers on the ground, trembling as icy fingers of frost burrow into him and nest in his bones.  He still can’t _see_.  Sharp pains radiate across his chest as it tightens.  His strength wanes with the last of his body heat, unable to create even the barest spark to breathe fire, though at this point he is just as terrified at what he might see as he is with staying in the dark.  There’s soft scraping coming from every direction.  He feels the wall he’s become glued to shift toward the center of the room.  The walls close in, slowly but unceasingly, shifting his body right along with them.  His good wing folds around him, shielding his head, as he sobs for breaths on the ground.

         It is his own sobbing and tears that finally awaken Zippo.  He sniffles as he looks around.  He is in Kreetan’s living room.  He carefully peers around, seeking anything that does not belong, before his eyes land on the closed kitchen door.  Zippo crashes through the nearest window within moments, retching where he lands.  His sleeping pants soak through instantly.  He had landed in the water at the bank of the river.  Instinct had drawn up his wings and tail to prevent them from getting wet.  Despite the chill, he is grateful for the water.  He splashes through the reeds, going waist deep, and rubs himself down, trying to rinse the residue of the dream from his skin.  It doesn’t work very well.  He needs a real bath, he decides. 

         His flame burns bright, though quite low, on his tail.  Its presence comforts him.  He takes to the sky, though, instead of returning to Kreetan’s.  He’ll pay him back for the window later.  For now, he flies freely in the cool night air, quickly calming from the nightmare now that he is free to stretch his wings and fly however and wherever he pleases.  He finally takes notice that the glass had gouged him in a few places, though he can’t feel them.  None of them seem too serious and would be treatable once he gets home.  And though he recovers well during his flight, his mind is unsettled from the nightmare.  He knows there was something unnatural and almost.  .  .  familiar about it.  He puzzles over it as he returns to his own home and bed.


	4. Marshall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artimador, in good spirits from consuming Zippo’s dreams, decides to gamble with fate and targets a shiny Pokémon next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written: September 28, 2014. No Beta.
> 
> Chapter Specific Tags: Marshall Zayn (Lopunny), Unnamed (Spiritomb), Unnamed (Gastly), Unnamed (Sableye), Unnamed (Cofagrigus), Implied/Referenced Drug Use

         The smoky tang of the Charizard’s dream is still rolling across the Haunter’s tongue.  He wishes he could go back for seconds.  He knows, though, that to drain the Fire-type anymore would be fatal.  And if his favorite snack is dead, he can’t enjoy him later, now can he?  _No_ , he cackles, _he can’t_.  He will let him live, to serve as a treat on a later night.  And despite being very satisfying to his desires, he finds he still hungers.  So he drifts with the night air, scenting for his next meal and watching the dark clouds shroud the moon and stars, ever morphing, ever shifting, ever dark. 

         T’was as he drifted over a forest that he caught a rare scent.  It held a tangy undercurrent, as if spiked with citrus.  Very different from his favorite flavor.  But only a _bit_ less desirable.  He had smelt such a scent once or twice before.  It was a mark of a _shiny_ Pokémon. 

         Ah.  _Yes_.  Shiny Pokémon are indeed . . . _different_.  He does not know why it is so, but their dreams do cause a certain . . . _experience_.  Depending, of course, on the Pokémon.  _It’s like Russian roulette_.  He has heard of a Spiritomb who once ate a dream from a shiny Pokémon and got so high, he drifted on air currents for a week ‘ere he came back to himself.  Another rumor spoke of a Gastly who got drunk off of one.  And, of course, there are the horror stories, of a Sableye who simply disintegrated into nothing and was never seen nor heard from again after attempting to eat a shiny Pokémon’s dream.  And another of a Cofagrigus whom forgot everything, even how to move, and is supposedly in a vegetative state to this very day. 

         The Haunter had never tried before, but now the temptation pulls at him, nearly as strongly as a Fire-type’s aroma.  Before he could decide against it, his will caves.  He wants a taste.  He _really_ wants a taste.  And he always tries to get what he wants.  His most significant sin, he has always been told, was _lust_ after all.  And who was he to deny himself his desires?

         He finds the shiny Pokémon fairly quickly.  It seems his potentially harmful victim is a . . . Lopunny?  _Hm_ . . .  The Haunter considers his prey.  He is pretty sure that a Lopunny’s ears are supposed to have _much_ more fluff than that.  In fact, this Pokémon looks to be only half evolved, as the fur on his ears are in the arrangement of a Buneary . . . _What the hell was wrong with him?!_   Damn shinnies are _so_ weird.  Maybe he _shouldn’t_ try to eat his dreams . . .  With a frown, he considers his options. 

         The . . . Lopunny lays blissfully unaware, sleeping on his stomach, spread eagle.  The blanket is tangled about his feet.  One ear he uses as a replacement for the blanket, as it lays draped across his bare shoulders and down his back.  The other dangles off the bed.  The Haunter scoffs at the pink silk pajama pants.  Talk about _conceited_.  _Eh_.  _Why not?_   The Haunter decides.  He doesn’t _like_ Normal-types anyway.  _Let him suffer.  Dream Eater._

 

*                *                *

 

         “ALL HAIL THE REIGNING CHAMPION, SIR MARSHALL ZAYN!!”  The announcer shouts above the roaring crowd chanting his name.  _MARSHALL!  MARSHALL!_   Marshall stood in the arena, his defeated enemies strewn around him.  His head is held high as he gloats to the fallen foe at his feet. 

         “WHO IS THE PATHETIC WEAKLING NOW!!?  BAHAHAHAHAHA!”  As he glories in his triumph, he fails to notice the shadows crawling from cracks and crevasses at the edges of the battle field.  He doesn’t notice the crowd slowly fading into silence and disappearing.  As fog, thick and inky black, rolls in, he senses something is wrong.  Gone were his opponents.  Gone was the crowd.  Gone was the arena.  All was the fog, swirling all about him, curling around his feet.  Trepidation blossoms through his mind, his heart jumpstarting into overdrive.  _Shit_.  He can’t see _anything_.  But he can _hear_ things moving in that fog.  _Scraping.  Shifting.  Dragging.  Scuttling.  Flapping.  Clacking._   He wants to hide.  There is nowhere to go.  The sounds echo all around him. 

         He is surrounded. 

         Their maliciously cruel intent precedes them like a suffocating, immobilizing snare.  _What the hell . ._ .  Massive shadowy forms materialize from the fog, surrounding him.  Before him, a massive hound, snarling, drool slagging off from behind fangs, keen to chew on him.  To his right, an owl, large as the dog, clacking its beak; its soulless eyes peer through him, unimpressed by the meager pickings it has found.  Behind him, a spider, black as the shadows it crept from, its chelicerae glossy and dripping with venom, which melts the ground where it falls.  _Oh shit_ . . .

         “W-wait!  W-we can talk this out!”  The creatures stalk toward him.  Raw panic and terror seize him, as he trembles and cries.  “WAIT!  PLEASE!”  He whines.  The creatures descend on him with a ravenous intent.  “I DON’T WANNA DIE!!!!!!”  An odd warmth spreads across his groin. 

         With a shriek, Marshall lurches awake, searching the dark corners of his room intently.  Deeming himself safe in his room, his panic subsides.  _Just a dream_ . . .  he thinks was a sigh.  Such things are not uncommon to him. 

         He stands to turn his night light on.  _So much on giving up on this_.  He can try again tomorrow night.  Soft light illuminates his room.  As he returns to his bed, he notices that his pants were clinging to him and were strangely cold.  He glances down.  A dark stain has spread from his groin down past his knees.  A glance at the bed confirms a matching wet spot.  “DAMN IT!!”  He curses, with a frustrated shout.  Striping, he shakes out his spare blanket and settles as far as he can from the spot.  He’ll deal with the laundry in the morning.


	5. Cyndy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artimador severely regrets his previous choice of victim. He stumbles across another Fire-type while suffering extreme nausea. He targets the Pokémon in hopes of banishing the symptoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written: September 28, 2014. No Beta.
> 
> Chapter Specific Tags: Cyndy (Cyndaquil), Lief Groa (Bulbasaur), Food Poisoning, Scopophobia [fear of being seen or stared at by others; fear of drawing attention to oneself] 
> 
> Definition of the phobia found at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scopophobia.

         _WORST_.  -Hic- _IDEA.  EVER.  Dear GOD!!  WHAT THE HELL!?!_ -Hic- _HIS STOMACH!  DAMN LOPUNNY!!  NEVER EVER_ -Hic- _EVER AGAIN!  HE WILL MAKE THAT DRATTED BASTARD OF A RABBIT_ -Hic- _PAY!  Ughhh . . ._   The Haunter moans as his stomach roils and wages war against him.  He is _dead_ , -Hic- _damn it!_   He thought he was through with the whole _sickness_ deal!  He can’t even _force_ himself to vomit to relieve the nausea, since, _ya know_ , ghost.  Ghosts don’t vomit.  He needs - needs SOMETHING to settle his stomach.  _ANYTHING_. 

         He claws himself through the air, desperation fueling his movements.  Sighting another house, he topples through the roof, landing in a miserable heap in what appeared to be a living room.  A comforting warmth emits from the hallway.  A delicate fragrance, thin as a whisper, beckons him forth, promising a relief to the unending, mind numbing nausea.  The scent is not as heady as the Charizard’s, but the gentle smoky texture is similar enough for him to recognize it as Fire-type.  _Thank_ -Hic- _the heavens_.  _Maybe Flaminio was right_ -Hic- _about that place!_   He clumsily phases into the room.  A tender glow lightens the room.  A small boy was loosely curled, blankets covering all but the top of his bluish hair, which lay tousled and strewn about his face and pillow.  _Cyndaquil,_ his nose registered.  He is far too miserable to appreciate the soft naivety of the boy’s idyllic dreamscape.  With all the desperation of a drowning man, he reaches out.  _Dre_ -Hic- _Dream Eater_.

        

*                *                *

 

Cyndy ran towards Lief.  _Quick Attack!_   He lands solidly against Lief’s enemy.  “Awe, Cyndy!  I was going to beat him!”

         “Sorry.  .  .  I panicked.  We don’t have any more potions or berries.  And he was really big.  We’d never escape if you had gotten hurt.  .  .  ” He replies, nervously fingering his pack and worrying about how light it was now.  “I think we should go back.  We can come back tomorrow to finish the mission.  .  .”

         “Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” Lief agreed.  As they made their way out of the dungeon, they spoke excitedly of their rescue team and how well it was going.  They crafted plans on what to do to recruit more members for their team.  Suddenly, something catches Lief’s eye.  “Over there!”  He calls excitedly, running through a gaping hole of a tunnel.

         “W-wait!  Lief!  We should stick together in this place!”  Cyndy rushes after his friend.  The floor, strewn with stones and unseen crevasses, trip him several times, but he eventually comes to a dark cavern.  “.  .  .  Lief?”  The ground felt different here.  _Wooden_.  The cavern feels abnormally large and still, as if a breath was being held.  He is tense and very carefully inches his way into the room.  “Lief?”  No one answers.  Just as he considers turning back, a loud click reverberates around the room, startling Cyndy.  A flood of light illuminates him and the area immediately around him.  A spot-light.  _W-what?!_   He scurries out of the light, but it follows him.  Panic flares hot in him.  _Flamethrower!_   Fire wreathes his back as he breathes flame all around him. 

         Startled shock chokes it off.  _What was that!?_   The room does not seem quite so dark any longer, despite him not producing his own light anymore.  The stray light from the spot-light glints off of the things in the darkness.  Cyndy whimpers, and as he turns to run, he abruptly finds his escape route gone.  Many, many Pokémon sit before him as an audience as he stands upon the stage.  They wait.  _What are they waiting for?_   Alarm rings through him and he inches away from the edge of the stage, trembling from the attention so intently focused on him.  His nape hairs stand on end.  His breaths keep pace with his pounding heart.  A tentative look over his shoulder reveals to him many _many_ eyes, glinting in the darkness all around him, just watching.  _W-why?  What am I supposed to be doing!?  Lief!  Where are you!?  Seed Bomb me out of here!!_   He searches for the stage exit.  Left or right?  He can’t see an end to the stage on either side. 

         As he stands, shuddering with indecision, about to simply make a mad dash one way or the other, or perhaps cause an Eruption, the floor moves under him.  He watches in horrid fascination as a massive eye opens beneath his feet.  He could hear the squelching of its movements as it rolls in its socket ‘ere finding him.  The iris quickly narrows from the spot-light.  Cyndy is standing right in the center of its pupil, but it does not seem to notice.  It just watches him.  .  . 

         “U-uh.  .  .” he squeaks as his throat caves into itself with a dull burn.  He doesn’t know what to say or to do.  He lifts a foot.  Transparent goo clings to his sneaker.  Decision made, he bolts.  Or at least tries to.  The eyes follow him in his mad dash.  The stage never ends.  In a last ditch effort to hide from the stares, he leaps from the stage and into the shadowy crowd, terrified of what they might do to him but desperate to vanish from sight. 

         With a startled yelp, the young boy finds himself tangled in his bed sheets on the floor.  His heart races as he carefully ascertains the security of his room.  He thought he caught the sight of a bare foot vanishing into a dark corner.  Shaking his head, he banishes the thought from his mind.  _It couldn’t be_ , he thinks.  His house isn’t haunted.  He turns on the light.  _Nothing out of the ordinary_.  Thusly satisfied, he throws his blankets on the bed and goes to make himself a warm glass of milk. 


	6. Flaminio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artimador fantasizes about Zippo’s dream, regretting that Marshall’s dream ended his enjoyment so quickly. He craves another Fire-type’s dream, but finds himself back home. He tries to retire for the night, to no avail. His attention is drawn to Father Flaminio, whom lies deeply asleep just down the hall. Father Flaminio, who just so happens to be a Fire-type and just so happens to have been left unguarded as the Ghost-types had all left to roam the night. Despite a jolt of guilt, Artimador moves to prey upon one last victim for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written: September 30, 2014. No Beta.
> 
> Chapter Specific Tags: Father Flaminio Whicket (Houndoom), Zeppelin (Drifblim)

         _Doo lee lummm~.  Da doo lee lummmm~…_   The Haunter hums as he drifts back to Father Flaminio’s place.  His stomach remains unsettled from its horrific encounter with that weird rabbit’s rotten dream, but the little Cyndaquil proved to be quite efficient at counteracting it.  His tune abruptly stops as he recalls the distressingly short span of time he had to enjoy his favorite meal.  _Ah.  The delicacy that is a Char.  .  .  Ruined.  Ruined by an ill begotten rodent.  Oh, how he craves for that Fire-type.  .  .  That rolling smoky flavor, thick as molasses and warm as a summer’s day.  .  .  What he wouldn’t give for just one more Fire-type’s dreams and screams ‘ere he stops for the night?_

         It’s not meant to be.  Equal parts disappointed and relieved, he finds himself back at Flaminio’s home.  Phasing through the wall, he settles himself on the couch.  _Hm_.  .  .  No one else seems to have wondered back yet.  The silence is so absolute, he can practically hear Flaminio’s breathing from his bed room.  _Whatever_.  He sprawls on the couch.  _So much time, so little to do._

         He stares blankly at the ceiling.  Maybe he should sleep himself.  Settling in, he lays, waiting for sleep.  Seconds turn to minutes.  Minutes stack into half an hour.  _Augh!_   With a half-hearted groan, he rolls off the couch and hovers over the floor, staring dejectedly at it.  Depression weighs him down.  _Oh, woe is he!  What can one do, if even sleep eludes one’s grasp?_ He laments, sinking into the floor. 

         _Oh?_   Cloth rustles in the bedroom and the bed groans lowly in protest as Flaminio rolls over in his sleep.  The sudden noise seems to bring Flaminio’s presence to the fore of his mind.  And, more importantly, the _absence_ of certain _other_ Ghosts.  .  .

         _Hmm_.  .  .  _Father Flaminio_.  _A Houndoom.  .  .  A fully evolved Fire-type_.  .  .  Perhaps, he may yet have a chance for one more dream ‘ere the night is over.  .  .  He drifts to the doorway of the bedroom. 

         It seemed wrong to just phase through, since it was indeed Flaminio’s room.  He shares so much of himself, the least any Ghost could do is respect the boundaries of his bedroom.  The door was unlocked.  _And why shouldn’t it be?_   He is practically the most well protected Pokémon to ever live.  And he lives in the middle of nowhere.  He’s a _literal_ saint.  _Why would anyone seek to harm him?_  

         _Ow_.  With a wince, he rubs at his chest.  _What was that?_   Whatever that brief, sharp jolt was, it is gone now.  With a snort, he dismisses it as a side effect of the stomachache.  Besides, eating just a bit of his dream won’t kill him, or anything.  It would be more of a.  .  .  _Taste_.  _That’s right.  Just a taste_. 

         Flaminio lays, semi-curled on his side, his sable locks strewn across the pillow, the glimmering ginger spreading below them.  His dream wafts around him, a nice woodsy smoke flavor accompanying the aura of his unconscious thoughts.  The Ghost’s mouth waters, even as he grows twitchy with his nerves.  _It will be just a taste.  .  ._  

         _Dream Eater._

         _**Protect**!_

         _What!?_   The Haunter startles back, away from the shield.  _Who?_

         “Now, now, now.  .  .  _Why_ would you do something like _that_ to our dear Father?”  The deceptively calm voice sounds from across the bedroom.  Before his very eyes, Zeppelin appears for but an instant.  He lunges at the Haunter, striking far too fast for mere eyes to follow him.  A harsh steely hand clutches the Haunter’s throat, slamming him into the wall.  “ _Well_ , Artimador?”  The hand convulses with the thinly hidden wrath of the Drifblim.

         “I-it was a-an accident!”  Artimador chokes out.  The hand flexes.  _Wrong answer_.  “I-I only w-wanted a _taste!_   I was so _hungry_ a-and bored!”  Zeppelin’s face contorts and darkens with fury.  _Definitely the wrong answer_.  Artimador sobs. 

         “I WON’T SUFFER _ANY_ HARM TO BE DONE TO _**HIM**!” _ Zeppelin explodes.  His other hand fists as it pulls back.  _**Phantom Force**!_

         “WAIT!  PLEA-” The Haunter is cut off as Zeppelin’s attack lands with full force on his face.  His mind shorts out and eyes glaze over.  The pain was too much for him to take.  _One hit knock out._   Zeppelin releases him.  His form slumps unconscious to the floor.  The Drifblim sneers down in disgust.

         “Worthless trash.”

         And thus did the Haunter’s night of hunting come to an abrupt end.  Did the Haunter survive the devastating blow?  _But of course_.  Did Flaminio wake up due to the fighting?  _No_.  He is _quite_ a deep sleeper with all those rambunctious Ghosts traipsing around.  Will Artimador ever attempt Dream Eater on Flaminio again?  _Perhaps_ , if he was ever left unguarded long enough to _try_.  And what of the other victims?  They all recover, _though_ Kreetan, when he rushed to see what the hell broke in his living room and found naught but a shattered window and a missing Zippo, was terrified and angry enough to start hunting for his missing friend in the dead of night.  After all, he had woken from one brutal nightmare just to suffer another.


	7. Epilogue: Where were you!?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kreetan rushes to his living room when he hears the glass window that Zippo barrels through break. When he finds Zippo missing without any word or clue to his whereabouts, Kreetan struggles with a panic attack while beginning a hunt for him. While Kreetan searches for Zippo, Sam has a package to deliver to Kreetan and ends up following him just a step behind throughout the day, much to his ire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written: October 7, 2014. No Beta.
> 
> Chapter Specific Tags: Kreetan Stillwaters (Blastoise), Zippo Saraf (Charizard), Sam Delmar (Pelipper), Archie Lute (Carracosta), Unnamed (Panpour), Unnamed (Darumaka), Lee Ardal (Hitmonlee), mentioned - Boat Denvers (Fearow)
> 
> Format Note: Brackets […] indicate something happening at the same time as the current segment but at a different location.
> 
> This chapter has AU world-building lore in it. It also references information first introduced in “Trial 001” in the "Subject 001" story, despite being chronologically before that story. This is due to two factors: 1) I have, with the character creator's permission, been actively developing every one of these characters and the world as I go and 2) retconned edits where, therefore, necessary in order to make the characters more in character. Apparently the way I develop these characters and world is good enough to be considered "official" in terms of this AU that Pwnyta has created.

_KREETAN’S HOUSE, PAST MIDNIGHT_

         “What the _HELL!”_   Kreetan stumbles into the room.  There was a crash – shattering glass – from the living room.  _Zippo_ was in the living room.  _Had the tributary-?!_   There’s always a possibility that something broke through the mesh-work wall again.  Zippo could easily have been caught in the destruction.  Kreetan has _got_ to remember to move that _fucking_ _couch_ further **away** from the _fucking river_. 

         He can’t see anything in the room.  It was far too dark.  The moon and stars are shrouded with thick clouds.  Not even the thinnest beams of light seeps through his windows to help light the room.  His throat thickens with renewed fear, an icy jolt spearing his heart.  _It **shouldn’t** be this dark_.  _Not with a Charizard in the room._

         “Zippo?  H-hey.  This ain’t funny. . .  Where are you?”  The untroubled tone Kreetan tries to fabricate splits at its seams.  _“K-kree…tan…Help!  Kreetan, please!”_  A coughing, desperate echo resounds in his head.  The black horror of his dream rushes back in a violent torrent. 

         “HEY ZIPPO!  GET YOUR **DAMN** FLAMING ASS OUT HERE!  YOU **BASTARD**!”  His terror flows into rage.  His hand fumbles at the wall, patting and brushing, searching for the damn switch.  “ **ZIPPO**!”  A dull click sounds as light floods the room.  Kreetan stands ridged at the door.  The room was empty.  “. . .  Zippo?”  He strides to the couch, picking up the discarded blanket.  He doesn’t see any sign of a fight.  No blood.  Nothing broken.  His brow wrinkles in confusion.  _Maybe Zippo was in the kitchen . . . ?_   He turns to the door, but his eyes catch on his window.  His _broken_ window.  “Shit!”

 

[“Hey.  I need this package taken to Kreetan Stillwaters.”

“The Blastoise, right?”

“Yes.  Thank you.  He’s either going to be at his house or the bar.”

“Alright.  It should get to him a little before dawn.”]

 

         _He couldn’t find Zippo_.  Kreetan rubs at his arms.  An unnerving itch of anxiety fizzes right below the surface.  Zippo _wasn’t_ where he was _supposed_ to be.  There was blood on the shards of the broken window.  He didn’t even leave a note.  Zippo _never_ just fucks off to wherever without giving a heads up first.  Zippo knows how damn fucked up Kreetan gets if doesn’t know _what the hell is going on!_   _That bastard_.  If something’s _happened_ to him, Kreetan swears to hunt down his damn ghost and kill him again!  He stalks out of his home, heading into town.  This late, he probably just went to the damn bar.  Kreetan ignores how hollow those words are.  The back of his mind whispers _“. . . never just fucks off to wherever without giving a heads up. . .”_  Kreetan does his best to ignore that too.

 

*                *                *

 

 [Sam stands outside Stillwaters’ house.  There was no answer to his knock.  He glares coldly at the door.  _The house or the bar_ , his client said.  The house was empty, so the bar is next.  _Damn Blastoise.  Why couldn’t he fucking be in the first place he looked?!  He’s on a fucking time table, the bastard_.]

 

THE 24/7 PANPOUR FOUNTAIN BAR, AN HOUR OR SO BEFORE DAWN

         “So he ain’t been here,” Kreetan sighs, nursing his drink.

         “Naw, man.  Like I said, ain’t been no Fire-types moonlighting ‘ere aaaallllll night~,” The Panpour replies as he wipes down his counter. 

         “Damn, burning bozo, with his big wings . . .  and his four stupid ears . . .  what the _hell_ . . .  just fucking leaving me like that . . .  I hope he swallows a bug while he is flying, the bastard . . . ”  Kreetan mutters as he stares at his drink. 

         “Well, look at what trash washed up now!”  A snarl automatically twisted his lips from his teeth as he turned to face the intruder.  There he was, in all of his insufferable arrogance and stupidity.  _THAT FUCKING BASTARD ARCHIE!_

         “What do ya want, dick-weed!?” he growls as the Carracosta leans casually against the bar. 

         “Oh, nothing much.  Just looking for someone who is not _you_ , fucking bastard,” just to spite the Blastoise, he sits a mere three chairs away.  “The usual,” he dismisses the barkeep.  He glances sidelong at the Blastoise.  “ _Say_ . . .  where’s that Charizard friend of yours?  He finally realized what a fuckin’ waste of time you are?”

         “Shut the HELL UP!  WHAT DO _YOU_ EVEN _KNOW?!”_   Kreetan snarled as he stood up and faced Archie. 

         “Hm?  Oh, the same Fire-type ya’ were askin’ ‘bout earlier?  Yeah, he _lost_ ‘em,” the barkeep piped in as he set Archie’s drink in front of him.  “And now he cain’t _find_ _‘em!_   BWAHAHAHAHA!” he chortled as he walked away.  _Oh how he loved drama~!_

         “AHHAHAHAHAHA!  YOU _LOST HIM!_   WHAT A _LOSER!”_   Archie was banging the table in his mirth. 

         “SHUT THE _HELL_ UP!”  Kreetan advanced on him, itching to release some of his pent up tension.

         “ _MAKE_ ME, YA IDIOT!  I BET THAT YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO FIND HIM!”  Archie met him, toe to toe.

         “AS IF!  I’D BE BETTER AT FINDING HIM THEN _YA WOULD_ , FUCKIN’ DICK-WEED!!!”  Kreetan snarls, getting right into Archie’s personal space.

         “YEAH RIGHT!  I’LL FIND HIM _BEFORE_ YOU!!” and before Kreetan could fully realize what just happened, Archie was already out of the door, asking if anyone had seen a Charizard in a red pea coat. 

         “YA’ BASTARD!” he shouts after him.  “DAMN!  Where would Zippo go . . .?  Where would Zippo go . . .?”  His eyes catch the sun rising, bringing memories of breakfast at a café with it.  “The Darumaka Café!” he whispers his epiphany.  _Can’t have that damn Carracosta hear him, now can he?_

 

*                *                *

 

 [Sam stalks out of the fucking bar.  “You just missed him!”  The barkeep said, full of good cheer.  _The bastard_.  There was nothing _cheerful_ about missing the _damn Blastoise_.  “Try that café, the one by the park!  He was muttering to himself about the place, BWAHAHAHA!”  At least the fool wasn’t a _complete_ fucking waste of time.  _Café by the park?  That must be that higher-end Darumaka place_.]

 

THE DANCING DARUMAKA CAFÉ, AN HOUR OR SO AFTER DAWN

         Soft music drifts down from the ceiling.  A young Darumaka, half his height, smiles up to him.  “Hello, Mr. Kreetan sir!  Welcome back!  Would you like your usual breakfast order, sir?”  He can’t help it.  Her round cheeks dimple with the intensity of her grin.  Her warm doe eyes shimmer with her enthusiasm for her job.  He smiles easily back down at her.  _Why not?_   He was hungry, after all.  He follows her into the café.

         “Sure thing, kiddo.  But make it as quick as you can.  I’m looking for Zippo right now.  Has he come by yet?”  Her frown pushes her lower lip out into a pout as she thought. 

         “No sir, not yet,” she replies, shaking her head and making her hair bounce.  “Here, your usual table!” she grins as she skips away.  Jamming her notepad into her mouth, she pulls herself up onto a stool with both her hands.  Scribbling what must have been Kreetan’s order down, she slaps the note on the shelf of the window to the kitchen.  “PA!  MR. KREETAN IS HERE!  ‘E WANTS HIS USUAL!!”  An echoing affirmation answers her.  She handles the coffee machine with a skill well beyond her age and soon Kreetan finds the best cup of coffee in the region in front of him. 

         “Thanks.”  She stares at him, a hopeful smile across her face.  He grins as he carefully – _very_ carefully, since Fire-types aren’t usually the best judge on what is considered _too_ hot – sips from his cup.  It bursts across his mouth like a fragrant and robust punch in the mouth.  It was the perfect temperature.  His sip turns into a mouthful or two.  With a hearty groan, he sets it back down.  “It’s even better than last time!  And I didn’t even scorch my tongue off!”

         “YAY!”  She cheers, celebrating her success with a victory twirl that sent her skirts billowing around her.  She bounds off to another table in the next breath.  _Ugh. . ._   _Darumaka are too damn cute_.  He’s going to have to go punch a rock or something later.

         The sun is near its peak when Kreetan finally gives up on camping out at Zippo’s favorite café to corner him.  _Damn Charizard.  What the hell is going on that he didn’t even show up for his favorite dose of caffeine.  NO!  He isn’t worried, damn it!  Shit. . .  Where else could the shitty lizard be?_   Kreetan vaguely remembers Zippo wanting to catch up with a teammate of his. . .  _Damn, which was it. . .  Some sort of Fighting-type. . .  Fee?  Dee?_ Oh well, he’ll figure it out later.  He leaves a generous tip on the table before calling out to his little waitress, “I guess he ain’t comin’ here today.  I’ll just have to check that fighting place over to the east.”

         “Thank you for coming Mr. Kreetan!  It was wonderful to see you again!  . . .  Do you mean Mr. Lee’s Dojo?”  _AH!  That was it.  Lee._   He nods and waves as he walks out the door. 

 

*                *                *

 

 [Sam glares at everyone around him, sending them scurrying out of his way.  “Sorry, sir,” the doe-eyed Darumaka shakes in the presence of his wrath.  “He-he was just here, but he left for the dojo.  Mr. Lee’s dojo, that is.”  His expression must have dropped a few degrees, for the Darumaka squeals in terror before fleeing into the café’s kitchen.]

 

LEE’S DOJO, AFTER NOON

         “HEY, LEE!  YEAH, _YOU!”_   Kreetan shouts at Lee from the sidelines.  Kreetan’s never liked these . . . _other_ friends of Zippo’s.  “HAVE YOU SEEN ZIPPO TODAY?”  Lee stops mid kick, to the great relief of his opponent.

         “No.”  He brutally finishes through with the kick, to the great horror of his opponent.  Lee pauses to consider Kreetan once more.  The Blastoise looked angry, not really worried or anything, so Lee doesn’t _think_ anything bad is going on with Zippo.  Still, _just in case_ , he’ll send a message out to him.  Lee wonders when Zippo will acquire one of the many types of portable communication devices, or at least install a computer in his house.  Calling would be so much better than a message.  According to Zippo, though, the portable ones are too easily lost when flying.  Considering Boat’s luck with them, it must be a common problem for all Flying-types.

         “OK, THANKS FOR NOTHING!!”  He storms out of the dojo.  _Dammit . . .  Where the hell else would that worthless reptile drag himself to . . .  It’s not as if there are **that** many places to go . . .  Come on!  He’s already searched the most suspect spots!  He can’t be in many other - . . . . . .  Oh damn, he’s a fuckin’ idiot!  WHY THE **HELL** DIDN’T HE LOOK AT THAT PLACE **FIRST**!!  NOW HE’S GOT TO TRAVEL ALL THE WAY ACROSS TOWN AND **CLIMB**!_

 

*                *                *

 

 [“He’s not here, is he?”

“Who?”

“That _fucking Blastoise.”_

“No.  Sorry.  You just missed him.”

“Whatever.  As if you could have done anything, Lee.  I’ll find the bastard, one damn way or another.”

“He was looking for Zippo.  You could try at his place.”

“. . .  You are _**fucking** kidding me”_

“Wait, if you are already going there, can you deliver this as well?”

“Fine.”]

 

ZIPPO’S HOUSE, DUSK

         Zippo was peacefully sipping on his hot milk, occasionally dunking a lava cookie from his favorite café.  He was still in his pajamas and was perfectly settled in his most comfortable chair with a favored book in his lab.  Yes, a day of peace was _exactly_ what he needed. 

         He’s glad that Kreetan obviously got the letter he sent early that morning, apologizing for the window, his abrupt departure, and his need to recover.  Since Zippo hadn’t heard back, then he can only assume – or hope – that Kreetan _finally_ matured a bit and respected his decision to linger at home for the day. 

         At least, that was until his door rebounded off the wall, and an irate turtle stomped his way into his den.  “OF ALL THE _HEARTLESS_ , MOST _STUPID_ , UTTERLY FUCKING NOT COOL _BULL SHIT_ TO EVER DO, YOU DID **THIS**!!  _OF ALL THINGS!!”_   Kreetan’s voice booms and echoes through the room.  With a sigh, Zippo replaces the bookmark and sets it down. 

         “What are you talking about?”

         “WHAT AM I TALKING ABOUT!??  I’M _TALKING ABOUT_ YOUR DAMN DISAPPEARING ACT!!  I’VE BEEN LOOKING ALL DAY FOR YOU, YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARD!”  Kreetan stops in front of Zippo, looking down at him.  His eyes flicker to Zippo’s tail and back again.  Secretly, he's relieved.  His friend is alive and well!  The flame still burns!  He could have wept if it weren’t so pathetic to suddenly cry all over the place for no apparent reason.

         “I sent you a letter!  You were supposed to get it this morning!  Sam said he’d personally see to it,” Zippo was confused.  Never had Sam failed to deliver on time.  “I thought you knew where I was and what had happened!  Besides, I was going to go tell you myself tomorrow!  I was just too worked up to do anything but fly for a while.  After that, I was tired and just wanted to go to bed.  It was all in the letter…”

         “WELL I NEVER _GOT_ A LETTER!  WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST-“

         “YOU NEVER GOT THE _DAMN FUCKING LETTER_ BECAUSE **YOU** DIDN’T STOP MOVING THE _FUCK_ AROUND YOU _ASSHOLE!”_   Another voice boomed from the door way as a package shot through the air with all the force of a Hurricane behind it.  The attack caught Kreetan upside the head, sending him sprawling into the far wall.  “Damn _fuckin’_ Blastoise, _wasting_ my damn day, screwing up my fuckin’ time table,” Sam’s voice trailed away as he took flight.

         “. . .  Kreetan?” he didn’t respond.  “Hey, Kreetan!”  Zippo gets up and checks on his friend.  _Out cold_.  Maybe he _shouldn’t_ have decided to mail all the money to him at once. . . _Oh well._   He pulls Kreetan’s concussed body on the nearest couch, shoving a pillow under the fool’s head and draping a blanket over him.  At least this way Zippo doesn’t have to go to Kreetan’s place in the morning. 

         He goes back for the package, finding a letter addressed to him from Lee.  Opening it, Zippo’s brows rise in surprise.  He has suspected it before, but now Zippo seriously considers the possibility that Lee _just might_ have psychic abilities.  _Why else_ would Lee be asking if he were alright or needed anything?  Not even his mother had this kind of awareness when it came to his well-being.

         He leaves the package on the table, where not even Kreetan could miss it, before finishing off his snack.  Leaving the lamps burning, he just flicks off the main lights.  He could never subjugate Kreetan to the total darkness.  Not like he had been.  So with a clear consciousness, he retires for the night, planning on writing Lee back in the morning.


End file.
